


Anything Could Happen

by whelvenwings



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Christmas, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-25
Updated: 2014-12-25
Packaged: 2018-03-03 09:54:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2846783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whelvenwings/pseuds/whelvenwings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Dean finds himself alone on Christmas Eve, he decides to take a trip down memory lane. But will he still be alone when midnight strikes, and Christmas Day arrives?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anything Could Happen

Dean exhaled roughly, shoving his hands further into his jacket pockets as he strode down the dark, icy street. An early snowfall had turned to slush, and thick brown wedges of crisped mud lay stacked at the side of porches and next to the curb. A car drew up to the sidewalk just in front of Dean as he walked, and a family piled out, laughing and pushing each other whilst the exhaust spewed out hot, grey smoke into the biting air. Dean sneaked a glance back over his shoulder to watch them as they made their way into the house, the older kid pretending to push the younger one into a patch of ice; their shrieks and yells echoed down the street, and Dean smiled – a little grimly and coldly, the glassiness in his eyes slightly muddied by sadness, like the soil-stained snow beneath his boots. He pulled one hand out of its pocket, gripping his cell phone; after a moment’s hesitation, he swiped the screen and flicked through his contact list, stopping when he reached ‘S’ and selecting the first name: Sam. He hit call and brought the phone up to his ear, continuing to make his way down the road, the cold chewing inquisitively on his fingertips as the dial tone buzzed in his ear.

“Hello?” His brother’s voice was tinny and distant, but Dean could still hear the smile on his face through that one word spoken. He found himself grinning, too.

“Sammy, it’s me,” he said – unnecessarily, he reminded himself, since Sam would have seen his name on the caller ID. Maybe he’d said it for his own benefit more than Sam’s. It’s me, he thought. It’s me. It’s Dean. Big brother Dean. That’s who I am.

“Dean, hey! How are you?” There was the faint sound of laughter, as though Sam had stepped out of a crowded, happy room to speak to Dean.

“I’m great,” Dean said, the phone pressed too tight to his ear, as though he were hoping to squeeze himself down into airwaves and travel to where Sam was, along with his voice. “I just wanted to wish you a happy Christmas, little brother.”

Sam was quiet for a moment. Dean swallowed and blinked hard a couple of times, his breath pluming like cigarette smoke in the cool air.

“I miss you, Dean,” Sam said, his tone defensive, pre-empting Dean’s scoff. “You know, if you started driving now, you could be with us for lunch tomorrow.”

“What, and interrupt your week-long hot date?” Dean teased, making his voice as relaxed and natural as he could. It came out a little throaty and taut, like a roughened finger on a trigger. “Nah, I’ll pass. Jess seems like a great girl, I don’t wanna screw that up for you.”

“You wouldn’t,” Sam said, now sounding confused. “The Moores said they’d be happy to have you for Christmas. Dean –”

“Listen, Sammy, I gotta go,” Dean said, suddenly desperate to get away, his brother’s voice too small to fill the space yawing inside him. “I’m gonna hit a few bars, see if I can’t find me another lonely heart. You have a good time tomorrow, yeah? I’ll call you, see if we can get together for New Year, or something.”

“Dean, I…” Sam sighed like a balloon deflating, and Dean could’ve kicked himself for bursting the happy bubble his brother had been living in for the past few days. He really did have an amazing power to screw things up. He was doing the right thing, keeping as far away as possible from Sam and Jess this Christmas.

“I’ll be fine,” Dean said, and this time his voice came out just how he wanted it to, warm and reassuring. “You know me, I’m not one to get sentimental about the holidays anyway. You enjoy yourself, and I’ll see you soon.”

“OK. OK,” Sam said, sounding as though he were trying to convince himself and Dean at the same time. “You enjoy yourself too, Dean.”

“Sure will, Sammy,” Dean said. “Happy Christmas.”

“Happy Christmas, Dean,” Sam said, and Dean hung up. He tucked the phone back into his jacket pocket, keeping his fingers curled tightly around it, so that he’d feel it vibrate if someone called him. Was he half-hoping that Sam would ring him back to convince him to make the drive to the Moores'? He wasn’t even sure himself. Every thought he had seemed as muddy and slippery as the slush-slick sidewalk. He needed a stiff drink to lean against.

He ducked into the first dive bar he came across, allowing the smell and the sounds to wash over him like a salt wave. The place was surprisingly crowded given that this was six o’clock on Christmas Eve; everyone seemed to know each other, so maybe there was some kind of party going on. Dean shouldered his way up to the bar, wearing his surliest expression so that no one would try to talk to him. The bar was hot and close after the biting chill of the street; Dean could feel himself sweating in his thick jacket, so he slipped it off as he sat on a tall stool and caught the eye of the woman tending the bar.

“Whiskey,” he said, leaning forwards and clasping his hands together. “On the rocks.”

“Rough night?” The woman asked. She was pretty, wearing a black vest top that showed off the tattoos on her shoulders. Dean smiled at her, but shrugged, looked down at his hands and didn’t answer. No matter what he’d said to Sam, he didn’t feel like turning a stranger into a lover tonight. There was a cold space in his ribcage, a space that wouldn’t be filled by the touch of unknown hands.

When the woman pushed Dean’s whiskey across the bar, he pulled it towards him but didn’t raise the glass to his lips. He had the feeling that drinking tonight would be like pouring water down a well. Still, he brought out his wallet and pushed his payment back over the bar. He may as well stay here and nurse a couple of cold fingers, rather than heading back to his quiet, bare apartment.

After a few minutes of sitting and tracing morosely at the wood grain patterns in the old bar, however, Dean realised that he was starting to attract attention. He noticed a couple of women standing further along the bar looking over at him and talking behind their hands, their expressions speculative. The last thing he wanted tonight was to be rebuffing unwanted attention; he quickly sought something to do, and reached instinctively for his cell phone, still tucked in the pocket of his jacket, laid neatly over his knees. He swiped across the screen to unlock it, staring idly at it for a few seconds, the fingers of his other hand running around the rim of the glass of undrunk whiskey.

He considered reading through old text messages, but decided against it; they were mostly from Sam or work-related, these days. Instead, he opened up his list of contacts. He’d been careful over the years to maintain his contact list, so he had the numbers of his friends from middle school next to old flames and new co-workers. Scrolling down the list slowly felt like looking at his own Hall of Fame. Red-haired Anna, she’d been a good friend in high school. Balthazar, his college roommate – for the six months he’d stayed there, anyway. Bobby… he hadn’t seen Bobby in years. And then –

There it was, of course. He’d kept this number so carefully, knowing as the years slipped past that it became more and more pointless to do so. People just didn’t keep the same phone for five years. This number was defunct, disused, dead. Dean hadn’t checked, of course – but he knew. If he  _did_ try to call, all he’d hear would be the flat, detached voice informing him that  _the number you have called is not in service…_

Dean raised the glass of whiskey to his lips, pressed the cool glass against his bottom lip. He didn’t feel  _himself_ enough, tonight, to be doing the things that he would normally do. Nothing felt quite right, and there was still this gape in his chest, this sensation of a fundamental disconnect. He replaced the glass on the bar. Calling Dean Winchester…  _the number you have called is not in service._

Dean stroked his thumb across the name on his phone screen. It had been so long. Calling now would be stupid, and crazy, and strange; it would be taking a risk with his heart, giving himself a little hope that someone might answer… a foolish hope, most likely in vain.

Dean looked around the little dive. Tinsel ran in loops above the bar, several people were wearing Santa hats, and fairy lights twinkled and winked encouragingly on the walls. Come on, they seemed to say. It’s Christmas. If there were ever a time for hope, foolish and vain and stupid and crazy and strange… it’s Christmas.

Dean swallowed hard, bit his lip, and hit call.

He held the phone in front of him, close enough to be able to hear it, but far enough away that he wouldn’t have to hear the dreaded out-of-service message too loudly.

The phone started to ring. Dean could hear the regular buzz, buzz.

 He half-grinned to himself, feeling the hope inside him growing. It was going to hurt so badly when nobody picked up, of course, but right now, when it was still possible that someone might answer, when anything could happen…

“Hello?”

Dean nearly dropped the phone.

“Hello? Is anyone there?”

Dean stared at the device in his hand. For a moment, it was as though he could see himself from the outside, wide-eyed and open-mouthed and shaking slightly, as though the sound of that voice were a hammer against his foundations, making him crumble and tremble from the inside out – and then he was back inside himself, and he had the phone in his hand, and on the other end was –

“Castiel,” he said, lifting his phone to his ear, his voice a rubble of nerves. “It’s me.” Last time he’d said that had been on the phone to Sam, and it had been too much information – now it was too little. Again, for his own benefit, not for Castiel’s, perhaps. It’s me. It’s Dean. Long-lost lover Dean. That’s who I am.

“Who is this?” Castiel said, though there was a shift in his tone, a slight lowering, an intensity – he suspects, Dean thought. He suspects it’s me, but he doesn’t know for sure. For him, this is the anything-could-happen moment; these are the seconds of possibility.

“It’s Dean,” he said, his heart beating absurdly hard in his chest, so fast that it hurt. “It’s Dean Winchester. Do you –”

“Don’t you dare ask me if I remember you,” Castiel said. Dean smiled, really smiled, for the first time all night.

“So you do, then,” he said, after a moment. There was a pause, heavy with seesawing thought; Dean had imagined this conversation a thousand times, of course he had, but all those words seemed to have escaped him now, and he was left with a great ache in his chest that it was impossible to explain.

“I do,” Castiel said, his voice thick and heavy, and Dean thought perhaps he didn’t need to explain anything. Castiel knew.

Dean cleared his throat.

“So, how’ve you been?” he said.

“Good,” Castiel said. “A lot has happened.”

“Same,” said Dean, feeling them both edging around the conversation, trying to find a way to be at ease. “You – did you, uh…” A whole host of questions opened up, and Dean suddenly found that he didn’t want the answers to any of them. Did you settle in well at that new school Naomi picked out for you, three states across? Did you think about writing to me? Did you find someone new? Did you – did you – Dean skirted around the question he really wanted to ask, even in his mind – did you  _miss_ me? _Did you miss me?_

“Yes,” Castiel said. “Yes.”

“Me too,” Dean said, too sharp and too fast, so that his voice wouldn’t crack. He blinked furiously. “Me too. Was a long time ago, though.” He said the last words as a kind of lilting half-question, testing the unknown waters. He heard Castiel breathing on the other end of the line.

“Some things,” Castiel said slowly, “are not affected by the passing of time.”

Dean felt the corners of his mouth pulling down, and willed himself to breathe, to loosen his desperate clutch on the whiskey glass in front of him. He’d tested the waters, and found them deeper than he knew how to handle. He made a slightly panicked break for the shallows.

“Yeah, like your phone, apparently,” he said, smiling up at the fairy lights on the wall without seeing them. “You know you’re allowed to buy a new one, right?”

“I have a new phone,” Castiel replied, a little primly, and Dean had to put his hand over his mouth to stop himself from – laughing, or crying? He wasn’t sure, but the familiarity of Castiel’s voice was pouring into the space in his chest, filling him up, and it was almost painful. “I transferred the number.”

“That’s a smart idea,” Dean said, just to say something and complete his half of the conversation, so that Cas would talk again.

“I have them occasionally,” Castiel said sardonically, and Dean was grinning down at the bar, biting his lip to keep it from trembling, pushing his whiskey glass to and fro in front of him. He didn’t know what to say, but he thought he could be content to sit here forever, listening to Castiel’s breathing and his own breathing, hearing them together for the first time in so many years, like two halves of a duet, finally played as they should be.

“Cas,” he said at last, at the same time as Castiel said,

“I wanted to call you, Dean, or write to you.”

Dean gulped and looked up, tilted his head back as though he could tip his feelings back to the bottom of his heart, where they’d been resting untouched, gathering dust and aching quietly for so long.

“You did?” he said.

“Of course,” Castiel replied, with a touch of fierceness. “You must know that I would never have failed to contact you unless I had no choice. The boarding school my mother chose confiscated all cell phones on arrival and refused to post my letters to you, on my mother’s instructions. I tried to get out and reach the town, so that I could use a payphone, but after the eighth time I got caught, they threatened to start punishing my friend Kevin instead of me…”

Dean sat with his forehead rested on his free hand, trying to fit the magnitude of this news into his mind. Cas had tried to call. Had tried to write. Had even tried to  _break out of his school_ , just to speak to Dean. Of course he had, said the part of Dean’s brain that had always rebelled at the thought that Cas had decided to simply leave Dean behind when Naomi took him away. Of  _course_ he had. This was _Cas_.

“And… and when you left school?” Dean said, his throat raw with restrained emotion. “Did you – did you ever think…?”

Castiel took a deep breath, and then released it. When he spoke, neatly and carefully, Dean could tell that Cas had said these words to himself many times – perhaps argued with himself over and over, just as Dean had done.

“It had been over a year,” Castiel said. “I thought that perhaps you might have moved on. I considered that it would have been entirely selfish of me to call you, and expect you to still feel the same way. And if you didn’t…”

“You didn’t want to hear it in my voice,” Dean said. “You didn’t want to hear me, but not in love with you.”

“Yes,” Castiel said, his voice almost a whisper, so quiet and intimate that Dean could almost imagine Cas was beside him.

“You would’ve been fine,” Dean said, and the tears were threatening again. “I still wanted you.” The past tense jarred as he used it.  _Want,_ his heart insisted.  _Want want want want want._

Castiel was silent. In the background, Dean could hear the sounds of merrymaking – someone talking loudly, followed by laughter. For the second time that evening, Dean was aware of interrupting someone else’s celebrations. His chest seemed to fold, his heart curling in on itself.

“Anyway,” he said, bringing a finality to his tone with an effort that cost him, putting a crease on his brow. “I won’t keep you. It was good talkin’ to you, Cas. You have a good Christmas.”

“Dean…?” Castiel said, sounding wrong-footed, the confusion in his voice like a weight on Dean’s chest.

“You have a good Christmas,” he repeated desperately, letting the words swing shut the door that he’d dared to crack open. “You have a good Christmas, Cas. I’ll see you.”

He hung up, before Cas could convince him to stay on the line.

For a long time, he sat without moving, the back of his phone pressed against his lips, sealing them shut. He stared into nothing, feeling the gap in his chest opening up once more. For a moment there – just for a second, Dean had thought that –

“You can’t go back,” he said to himself in a low voice. “You can’t go back.”

And yet – and yet – he wanted to, so badly. He wanted to go back. He wanted to go back to the time, the place, the person he was when he and Cas were together in high school, when he didn’t have this constant aching need behind his ribs.

Well, said a little voice in the back of Dean’s mind. You can’t go back to the time when you were together. You can’t go back to the person you were. But the park where you’d always meet is still there. You could be there in four hours – five, in the snow. You could go back. It’d be sad and stupid and it would hurt, but it would mean something. It would mean something.

Dean looked down at the whiskey glass in front of him, the liquid inside still untouched. It glittered golden and soft in the low lighting, promising a smooth amber road to oblivion. He could wake up tomorrow with a thickness in his mouth, and a cushion of physical pain to hide the loneliness in his heart. He could stay here. It would be smarter than trying to drive all the way back to his hometown, just to sit on his own in the cold and the dark. It wouldn’t hurt so much, either.

And yet – it would  _mean_ something…

Five minutes later, Dean left the bar. His whiskey sat on the counter, undrunk, glowing warmly.

**

Dean drove more carefully than he usually did. The roads were icy and dark, and it seemed suddenly very important that Dean made it to the park, to the place where he and Cas used to meet. It was imperative that he get there tonight. He couldn’t afford to blow a tire or spin off the road. He had to make it tonight.

He wasn’t entirely sure why he’d fixed his sights so firmly on the park. It was as though with the call to Cas he’d allowed to himself to take a look back, and somehow his eyes had got stuck looking, and now here he was, driving with a quiet determination across the state, as though if he were silent and stubborn enough, he could slip under Time’s arm and end up behind her, back in the days he missed so much.

It was impossible, and it was going to hurt when he arrived at the park and found only trees, and darkness, and cold, empty benches. He was mad. This was stupid. But Dean didn’t stop, and didn’t turn around. He drove on, and the night darkened around him, and the stars began to shine, shy and silver, and hopeful.

**

He stopped only once, in a little diner at the side of the road. He hadn’t given any thought to food before he left, and so had resigned himself to hunger, given that this was Christmas Eve and most places were closed – but the lights had been on in this little burger joint, and Dean had pulled up and gone inside.

The place had a kind of exuberant, fierce festivity to it. Holly and ivy wreaths bedecked all the surfaces that weren’t smothered in tinsel, and above each table was a little sprig of white-berried mistletoe. Dean ordered two cheeseburgers and a large fries, and sat on his own next to the window to eat it. Every now and then, the lights of another car would go past. Dean wondered if any of them were on a mission like his, pointless and meaningful and crazy. And hopeful. For a second, Dean allowed himself a moment of hope, that he’d arrive at the park, and somehow – somehow it would make everything alright. Somehow, it would close the book on the years of sadness since Cas left, so that Dean could stop flicking through the pages, hoping to read something new every night before he went to sleep, every morning as he woke. Maybe it was possible. Anything could happen.

A Christmas song came on over the tinny speakers, and the big, bearded man who’d cooked Dean’s food made a noise of happiness and turned it up louder.

“You mind?” he called over to Dean, who shook his head. “I love Christmas songs. You love ‘em?”

“They’re OK,” Dean compromised.

“I love ‘em,” the man repeated. “Take you back, don’t they? Back to all the Christmases you’ve had, listening to these same songs.”

He danced around a little, cleaning the counter. Dean watched him, a smile on his face.

“Take you forward, too,” the man added. “To all the Christmases you’re gonna have, listening to these same goddawful songs. You gonna listen to these songs all your life, brother. Who you gonna listen to them with?”

Dean swallowed.

“I don’t know, sir,” he said.

The man brandished his cloth at Dean, his eyes bright, lights dancing on his cheeks, reflecting off the tinsel.

“You best figure that out,” he said. “You ain’t got all the time in the world.”

Dean breathed out.

“I’m working on it,” he said, as another car drove past the window. Lights into the night, he thought. I’m working on it. I’m following you. You’re taking me back, and you’re taking me forwards. And it’s going to make it right.

He smiled, and began to eat his second burger.

**

An hour later, it started to snow.

The flakes started to fall, soft as ice-cold, crystalline kisses on the smooth metal hood of the Impala. Dean knew that he should be grimacing, should be worrying about how he was ever going to make it to the park if the snow started to settle – and god knew that snow could fall fast around here, and start to drift, and he’d get stuck if he wasn’t very lucky – but somehow, he wasn’t worried. He wound down his window and put his hand out, laughing at the feel of the furious bite of the cold, the gentleness of the snowflakes melting in his palm. The wind whistled through the window, like a cleansing breath. Dean felt light, his heart sharp as a snowflake’s edge, cutting free the tears that had been waiting behind his eyes for what felt like centuries. He drove, tracks on the road, tracks on his cheeks, a smile on his face. He was so cold, and it hurt a little, and for some reason, it was perfect.

Maybe he really could make it alright, tonight. Maybe being at the park, he could somehow fix all the things that he’d broken. Maybe he’d be there, and he’d feel at peace. Maybe – maybe Cas would be there –

No, Dean thought. That’s a hope too far. That’s too good for the likes of you. You can’t have something like that, you should be so lucky. Don’t even think about it. Think about the park. Think about the dark. Think about your heart.

This was a kind of madness, Dean thought. He wound up the window. But somehow it was a good kind of madness, a madness that was putting a smile on his face, that was easing the weight in his bones. He flicked on the radio, and a familiar old Christmas tune wheezed out of the speakers. Dean turned it up, and sang.

**

The snow fell steadily through the night. Dean’s luck held until he was almost at the end of his journey; he was recognising street names and signposts and landmarks, blanketed though they were by a thick layer of soft, cake-icing snow, when the Impala finally ground to a stop. The snow here was a few inches deep; the car had taken Dean further than he’d had a right to expect, but now it was done.

Dean sighed and switched off the engine. Without that low, mechanical growl, the surreality of the night seemed to expand to fill the space; the falling snow whispered as it fell, taking the hood of the stationary car as its own, glazing it over with chilled frosting. Dean was very aware of being a small person in a huge, dark night, with nowhere safe to sleep in this town, and nowhere to go but out into the cold.

Dean looked out through the windshield, trying to work out how far he was from the park. Through the snowflakes, he could make out the dim shape of a building – low and flat-roofed, fenced in, with a big sign outside… Dean sucked in a breath, and then smiled to himself, shaking his head. Of course he’d got stuck here, outside the high school that he and Cas used to attend together. Of course he had to walk this last part of the journey, just like he’d walked it with Cas every day for more than a year, up to their special place in the park, under the shade of the trees, in the quiet dappled light. Of course it had to be this way.

Dean took a deep breath, and opened the car door. The cold rushed in with a hunger, devouring the comfortable pocket of warmth that the heating system in the Impala had created. Dean released his breath, and watched it fountain out into the night as a clean, frosted spillage of mist. He grabbed his coat from the passenger seat, and stepped out of the car, shutting the door behind him and locking it. He squinted up at the sky; the snow showed no signs of stopping. At least if it buried his car, he knew exactly where to look for it, he thought, walking over to brush the icy covering off the school sign and beaming at it.

He was shivering hard; it was time to start walking. It had always taken him and Cas at least half an hour to get to the park, and with the snow, it would probably be closer to an hour. That would mean he’d be arriving at the park at – Dean glanced at his watch – around midnight. He smiled. He could see in Christmas Day at the park, just him and the stars and the snow, and the memories. He would go back, and when he got there, he’d figure out how to go forward.

If he wanted to get there on time, though, he’d have to get a move on. He began to stamp through the snow, grateful that he’d put on his thickest boots when he’d left his apartment earlier on, to go for a walk and clear his head before calling Sam. Talking with his brother seemed a thousand years ago; Dean thought of Sam now, maybe curled up to sleep with his girlfriend, or maybe sitting beside a warm fire, waiting to see Christmas arrive. Dean smiled. Sam wasn’t alone, and that was the most important thing.

The icy air seemed to be raking right to the bottom of Dean’s lungs, burning cold, scourging them clean. His eyes were watering, and before he’d been going ten minutes his legs were protesting at the effort of pounding through the thick snow, but Dean walked on. His breathing was the only sound in the stillness of the night; what a strange figure he’d make from afar, he thought. A lonely man, struggling through the silence and the snow, so that he could reach a place where he would sit and shiver in the silence and the snow. What strange things humans do, especially at Christmas. And how strange that he should choose now, of all times, to be happy. He grinned to himself as he marched on. His muscles ached, but his bones were at ease and his heart was singing. He hadn’t felt so  _right_ in a long, long time.

Dean knew the way better than he knew the back of his own hand, and he groaned a little as he reached the last hill up to the park. He peered upwards, but couldn’t even make out the trees atop the steep incline. He sighed, the cold sawing over his throat, and then put his head down, and carried on. Around him, the snow fell, landing in his hair and on his shoulders and, sometimes, down his neck, making him wince. He kept his eyes fixed on the ground in front of him, letting his gaze fall out of focus, so that the snow was just an endless white sheet, filling his vision. He and Cas had walked this so many times, but never in so much snow. This hill had always been the hardest part. Sometimes Cas had grabbed Dean’s hand and tugged on it encouragingly, laughing as Dean puffed and groaned. Dean stretched out his bare fingers now, reaching through the icy air, willing Cas to come, to push through time, to take his hand.

“Nearly there,” Cas said, in Dean’s voice. “Come on, Dean, nearly there. Don’t stop.”

The snow in front of him seemed to be changing in quality, becoming – lighter, somehow, glowing in a kind of orange iridescence that Dean took a few seconds to make sense of. He blinked, focused his eyes, and looked up. He was at the top of the hill, and the gate to the park was before him; the familiar old sign was still hanging on the fence, welcoming visitors. Someone had fixed a wreath of holly onto it, and – Dean caught his breath as he took it in – hanging in the trees, bedecking the rugged elms and ashes and gnarled oaks, was a long, long string of tiny, golden lanterns. They nestled in the darkness of the trees like warm stars pressed against the black of the night, so small and delicate, yet together casting a far-reaching radiance. For a few moments, Dean stood absolutely still, transfixed.

After a few silent moments, he pushed open the gate and walked into the park. The walkways were wide and open, just as he remembered, the trees a little older but still the same, that branch twisted just as it had been, that root still sticking up a little, careful, Cas, don’t trip – Dean sucked in a breath and smiled through the pain of that memory, catching Cas as he was about to fall. It had been the first time they’d ever been here, the first time they’d ever been that close… the first time Dean had allowed himself to think that maybe, just maybe, Cas could like him back. Back then, he’d let his hand linger just a little longer on Cas’ arm, because Cas was still looking into his eyes – and then he’d pulled away, of course. But they’d come together again. Always, they’d come together again.

Back in the present, Dean swallowed and walked on through the lighted trees.

He made for their special place, his feet finding the path without having to consult his brain. He reached out his hands, touching the trees as he went past, like Cas always used to – grounding himself with the friction, Dean always thought. Cas had always seemed on the point of flying away, but he’d done his best to stay where Dean could still reach him. He’d held onto Dean at least as tightly as Dean had held onto him. Dean could still remember the shock of that feeling, being held onto, tight. As though he were – precious, or – important. As though it had mattered to Cas that they stayed together as much as it mattered to Dean. For once, he hadn’t had to feel stupid about caring, or as though he had to hide the depth of his feelings. And they had been deep; god, they’d been  _profound,_ they’d been inscribed on his bones.

He was nearly there, now. Nearly at their special place. He’d find their tree, and he’d lean against it for a while. And then he’d have to think about real things, like where he was going to sleep and when he was going to go back to his apartment and how he was going to avoid hypothermia. But for now, he was nearly there, and there were lights in the park, lights in the dark, lights in his heart. And it was snowing. Anything could happen.

Dean glanced down as he moved past the last few trees, and his heart almost stopped. His breath rushed out of his lungs in a gasp. He halted, frozen, hands out as though to try and catch his balance. He stared and stared at the floor, disbelieving, but – there they were, neat and careful in the snow. A set of footprints, leading through to the place where Dean and Cas used to spend their time together.

 _They could be old,_ Dean told himself, and a tiny, hopeful voice replied that the snowfall was fresh this evening, and for the prints to be that clear, the person who made them couldn’t have been here too long ago…

 _Anyone could have made them,_ Dean told himself, and a slightly bigger, more hopeful voice answered that no one else would come up here, in the middle of the night on Christmas Eve, to the same place that Dean was going – surely, it had to be…

 _It can’t be,_ Dean told himself. He moved forwards as if in a dream, his pulse thudding, his breathing short and sharp.  _It can’t be. It can’t be. It can’t…_

As he rounded the last tree, a giant elm, he snapped his eyes closed. Anything could happen, he said to himself, drowning out the voices of disbelief. Anything could happen. Until I look, anything could happen. Believe that it could happen, Dean. Believe it, for a second, just let yourself believe that something good could happen. You could open your eyes, and he’ll be right there, under the lights and the snow. He’ll say your name. Anything could happen. Anything could happen. Anything could –

“Dean?”

Dean felt something inside him crack, breaking with a resonance that he felt in his whole body, like a wall of ice splitting down the centre as it melted, as it melted away.

He opened his eyes. Standing in front of him, wearing a suit and a long trench coat and an expression of complete shock, was Castiel. He was in the centre of the clearing in the trees, his breath feathering out into the night sky, his hair sticking out wildly and dampened by the snow, his eyes star-bright and deep with disbelief.

For a moment they stood, feet apart, frozen by the moment, caught under the weight of their incomprehension, their sadness, their joy – and then Dean opened his mouth, and reached out his hands, and Cas was moving towards him before Dean could even speak his name around the sob caught in his throat.

They fell into each other’s space, arms reaching around, pulling in, in, in, closer and closer, so close that Dean could feel every shaking breath in Cas’ lungs, could feel his own heartbeat pounding against Cas’ chest as though trying to beat a permanent tattoo into the skin, wanting to leave a new, indelible mark there.

“Cas,” he finally managed to say, his voice coarse and raw, and somehow saying Cas’ name made it  _real_ – made it a fact that the body pressed against his own belonged to Cas, to Castiel, to the person he’d loved from so far away, and so painfully, for so long –

Dean’s legs gave way, and they sank to their knees together, the snow crunching beneath them. Dean pressed his face against Cas’ shoulder, into the crook of his neck, and breathed, breathed the scent of Cas into his freshly-cleaned lungs. He tried not to shake, tried not to cry.

“Cas,” he said again, and this time Cas pulled back, just far enough that they could look into each other’s eyes. They stared, stared like they used to, drinking each other in without shame or hesitation or embarrassment. “Cas.”

Castiel lifted a hand, and placed it lightly against Dean’s cheek. Dean shook under the touch, his eyes full, his hands on Cas, fisted in his coat, not letting go.

“Dean,” said Cas. “How…?”

“I drove,” Dean said, and then laughed at the absurdity of it. “I left the bar right after I called you, and I drove all the way out here. In the middle of a blizzard.”

“But how did you know I’d be here?”

“I didn’t,” Dean said. “I had no idea. What – what  _are_ you doing here?”

“I live here,” Castiel said, a little faintly, still disbelieving. “I bought a house in town, a couple of months ago. It’s only ten minutes away. I come up here sometimes… but I never expected…”

Dean swallowed hard.

“I just thought – I’d come and see the tree, see where we used to go. I thought it’d be – the closest I’d get to spending Christmas with you.”

Cas pressed his lips together in a way that Dean recognised from the night that he’d come over to Dean’s house to explain that he had to leave, that he was being sent away to boarding school. Castiel was trying not to cry. Dean raised his hand and put it against the side of Castiel’s head, the heel of his hand resting on Cas’ cheek. Castiel leaned into his hold, his eyes sliding closed for a moment, his brows folding downwards, face screwed up in the tiniest of painful smiles.

“You still want to spend Christmas with me?” he asked in his low, familiar voice, opening his eyes. The shock of his gaze still had the power to rob Dean of his breath.

“Yes,” Dean replied. “I always did. I always will.”

“Always…?”

“As if I could want anyone but you,” Dean said, his mouth smiling, his eyes full of tears. “As if I ever did.”

Cas reached for his hand, then, and held it tight. Dean lost himself for a moment in staring at Cas’ face, his jaw, his cheeks, planes and surfaces that he’d once known from every angle, under every light, in any mood. He wondered if Cas still had that trio of freckles on his back – if he’d still shiver when Dean touched them, if he still liked – if he’d still – if he’d want –

“Cas,” Dean said, and then didn’t know how to phrase his question, wondered if it had already been answered; but he needed to be clear, now, needed to  _know._  “Do you… uh. See, the thing is, I…” The words caught in his throat, just like they always had before, back when they were together. The amount of nights he’d spent cursing his own cowardice, believing that Cas had left him behind because he hadn’t understood the depth of Dean’s feelings… he cleared his throat, and looked into Cas’ eyes. That had always made him brave.

“I love you,” Dean said. “I love you, and I was hoping – ‘cause it’s Christmas, and I was hoping, I thought – I wondered if –”

“I love you, Dean,” Castiel said, his eyes alight with blue fire. “I love you, too.”

Dean felt the ice-cold gap in his chest close up, as though it had never been. He couldn’t fight back the smile that seemed to blossom from his core, and didn’t bother to try to stem the tears coursing down his cheeks.

“So – so we can – we can be together?” Dean heard the hope in his voice, the raw hope. “You and me?”

“We can be together,” Castiel said, in his solemn, serious way. “You and me.”

Dean could hold himself back no longer. He leaned in, his hand sliding round the back of Cas’ neck, and kissed him, kissed him like he never had before, as though it were at once a transcendence and a perfect reality – a soul pressed against a soul, and also the straightforward sweetness of lips crushed against lips, pulling back and pushing forwards again, the simplicity and total submersion of skin on skin. When they pulled apart, Dean was breathless, shaking.

“That’s better,” he said, inadequately, but Cas smiled.

“Better than what?” he asked, eyes bright. Dean’s mouth twitched downwards.

“Sort of… lost track of who I am, past few years,” he mumbled.

“You’re Dean,” said Cas simply, and Dean nodded. It’s me. I’m Dean. That’s who I am. He twisted his hand tighter into Cas’. That’s who I am.

“Dean,” Cas said gravely, looking a little pained.

And just like that, all of Dean’s fears came rushing back. Oh god, I wrecked it already, he thought desperately. This is where he tells me that we can’t actually work. Where he says that we’re both good people, but it’s been such a long time, and we don’t know each other, and…

“My knees are all wet,” Castiel said. “I need to stand up.”

Dean stared at him for a moment in heady disbelief, before letting out his relief in a little laugh, a shake of the head.

“I need you to stand up too,” Castiel said. “I don’t want to let go of you, yet.”

They stood, together. Without a word, Dean led them over to the tree,  _their_ tree, at the far right of the clearing. He reached out a hand and brushed away the snow, revealing underneath it a simple carving –  _D + C,_ and all around the letters were tiny tally marks, hundreds of them, a new one scored for each day they spent together in this place. The tally system had always worried Dean. Things that were numbered had an end to them. He’d always hoped that one day, they’d run out of space on the tree, and then their days together would be limitless, uncountable.

They stood side by side and looked at the tree for a while, the snow falling all around them, a silent symphony of sight under the light of the lanterns.

Dean reached into his jacket, and pulled out his keys. They’d always used Cas’ house key before, but now he had a pen knife attached to his key chain. He flipped the blade out and pulled Cas closer to the tree, squeezing his hand before letting go. Cas stood close enough that their shoulders still brushed, and Dean felt the need between them, even in that slightest of touches. He smiled as he began to carve the tree for the last time. Cas stood beside him as he worked, watching him, watching the snow, watching him.

When he’d finished, Dean put the knife away.

Cas stepped forward, and traced the carved lines of the horizontal figure-eight, an infinity sign curved around their initials. He turned back to Dean, his face alight.

“Happy Christmas, Cas,” Dean said. Cas stepped closer, reaching up to cup Dean’s face and kiss him, warming his lips with the friction. Cas’ hand moved to the back of Dean’s neck, running through the short hair there, and Dean shivered slightly, put his arms around Cas’ waist to pull him in closer. Cas sighed, just like Dean had known he would, and opened his eyes.

“Come home with me,” he said. Dean grinned.

“I was really hoping you were gonna say that,” he said. “My car’s stuck in a drift, and I have nowhere else to go.”

Cas smiled, and placed another quick, firm kiss to Dean’s lips.

“You don’t need anywhere else,” he said. “Let’s go home.”

They joined hands, gripping tightly, and began to walk out of the park. Dean felt happiness rising inside him like an unstoppable tide. He was going to go home with Cas. He wasn’t going to be alone at Christmas. He’d gone back, and now he was going forwards. Maybe in the morning, he’d call Sam, to wish him a better Happy Christmas. Maybe he’d lie in bed until three, tangled up in Cas’ arms and sheets and smell. Maybe he’d get up at seven and they’d spend all day preparing a Christmas dinner to be proud of. Maybe in the evening, they’d come back up here, to the park, to see the lights in the dark, to feel the lightness in his heart.

Dean and Castiel left the park together, and held hands all the way home. Every breath was the start of a new possibility, every step was a stride into the great unknown.

Anything could happen.


End file.
